


Faith of a Type

by Perpetual Motion (perpetfic)



Category: Law & Order
Genre: M/M, post-ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-16
Updated: 2010-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:17:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetfic/pseuds/Perpetual%20Motion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I didn't realize you had anything," he says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faith of a Type

**Author's Note:**

> Not a direct post-ep for 19.14 [Rapture] but certainly inspired by it. There's also a brief mention of 19.9 [By Perjury], because it fit in so well.

There’s a rosary in Jack’s bedside table. Mike finds it by accident when he’s looking for a pen, and he pulls it from the drawer to inspect it closely. The beads are dark blue, and the crucifix is silver under the tarnish. Mike scratches off the tarnish with a thumbnail and catches the edge of his nail on an engraving. ‘John’ is stamped on the back, running vertically up the length of the cross.

“How long does it take to find a pen?” Jack walks into the bedroom and pauses when he sees what Mike’s holding. “That’s not a pen.” He doesn’t sound angry or anxious, just impatient to start the crossword.

Mike lays the rosary back in Jack’s drawer and spots a pen under Jack’s current book. “I didn’t realize you had anything,” He says.

“It was a gift,” Jack explains. “My mother’s last ditch attempt to put faith back into me.”

“I never had any,” Mike says. “My parents had a little, but we moved around so much it was hard to make it stick.”

“Casual atheist?”

Mike shrugs. “I suppose. I’ve never prayed, at least.”

“I prayed,” Jack’s tone is heavy.

“And?” Mike prompts into the silence.

“Faith gets less useful when you learn how to throw a good right hook.”

“You have faith,” Mike says.

“In the power of the law of man,” Jack points out. He reaches out his hand, and Mike hands him the pen. “Invisible friends were never my strong suit.”

“I was good at those.”

“Also from moving around?” Jack guesses.

Mike nods. “It was easier to invent my own friends than to actually talk to real people.”

“Well, come talk to me while I figure out the crossword.”

Mike grins. “Sure.” He looks over his shoulder as he leaves the bedroom, eyes on the bedside table as he closes the door.

*

“I have a question,” Mike says, much later. They’re in bed, Jack still trying to put together 34-down, and Mike is staring at the ceiling.

“Okay,” Jack says, tone half-distracted as he counts the number of letters for the umpteenth time.

“Why did you keep it?”

It’s a few seconds before Jack processes the question, intent as he is on his crossword. “It was a gift from my mother,” he says after the pause. He takes off his glasses and lowers the crossword and looks at Mike. “I don’t have a secretly religious side I’ve kept from you for some reason.”

“Didn’t think you did,” Mike assures him. “It’s surprising,” he explains when Jack raises his eyebrows. “I’ve rifled around in your bedside drawer plenty of times. I’ve never seen it.”

“It hasn’t always been there. It moves around.”

Mike cocks his head. “You mean you carry it with you.”

“Sometimes.” Jack puts his glasses back on and looks at his crossword again.

Mike marks his place in his book and turns on his side to look at Jack more fully. “You’re not telling me something.”

“I carry it with me, sometimes,” Jack says. “It’s an old habit.”

“How long since you’ve been in a church?” Mike sits upright when Jack very studiously doesn’t look at him. “If you want to make this a cross-examination, I can do it, you know.”

Jack grins a little. “You can try.”

Mike leans against Jack and looks at 34-down. “Vacuous,” he says after a pause.

“Son of a…” Jack trails off and fills in the letters. He sets aside the crossword and takes off his glasses. “Yes?” he asks when Mike gives him a pointed look.

“Last time you were in a church?”

“I stopped by the chapel at the hospital after Marty Winston almost shot you. You were too busy grumbling about being kept overnight to notice.”

Mike can’t speak for a moment. He smiles at Jack instead and tries to clear his throat. “Did it help?” He asks, his voice raspier than he intends.

“Not a damned bit,” Jack says. He rearranges himself until he’s lying down, Mike next to him, an arm across his abdomen. “But I promised my mother I’d keep it.”

No one else could say that, Mike thinks, and not sound like a complete asshole. He slides closer to Jack and closes his eyes. “You should get it cleaned,” Mike says against Jack’s shoulder. “We could hang it up somewhere.”

“Maybe,” Jack murmurs, and there’s a smile in his voice. “Pick a spot, and we’ll see.”


End file.
